Fighting Alaska (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  They arranged the bags in a corner, then Mexico pulled a bottle from a pocket of his mackinaw. “A little nightcap and welcome to Nome.”

  Pete grunted.

  Mexico removed three enameled tin cups from another pocket, then removed and hung up his hat and coat before pouring and handing around drinks. He looked a little more presentable, a little more like a real gambler, without the woolly hat and mackinaw. He wore a nice coat over a dark vest with a watch chain, and a collared shirt and red tie. Mexico lifted his cup. “Slàinte,” he said, then tipped the drink to his mouth hidden somewhere inside that thicket of hair.

  Pete raised an eyebrow before acknowledging the toast with a nod, then turned up his cup. Jean followed suit.

  Pete blew out a deflating sigh and asked, “Who is this Kearney?”

  Mexico refilled his cup. “From the rumors around town, he’s a big shot from the Dakotas. Started out as a sheriff, rose to political boss. Other than sheriff, he hasn’t run for office, he’s a back-room operator. He showed up in Nome with Judge Noyes and started handin’ out paper up and down Anvil Creek. Those were some of the earliest claims, so they were the easiest to pull a scam on. Some of those claims were jumped two or three times a week in the first days before gold was found on Nome Beach. I know of five men shot or knifed for jumped claims on the Anvil.” He licked his lips. “There mighta been more.” He drank from his cup.

  “It’s a disgrace!” Pete protested. “What about the real law?”

  Mexico grinned. “A federal judge is the real law, pardner. And Marshal Voorhees delivered the court papers from Noyes’ desk to the miners, so he’s not going to kick against the judge.” The gambler ran a hand over the untamed hedge of beard framing his face. “You gotta understand, Nome may be wild and woolly as a curly wolf, but the judge represents the law. The town may be full of thieves and back shooters, but they have a healthy respect for anyone standing in for the federal law.”

  Pete sighed mightily again.

  Mexico swirled the contents of his tin cup. “Boys, let’s talk about options. Your claim is out of reach with the judge and Kearney. That may change some day, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. So you’ll need a place to live until then. Sam will prob’ly still be on the warpath tomorrow, so you can hide out here. After that, we’ll have to see. But you can likely find a room at one of the lodging houses, or pitch a tent if nothing else.”

  “Uh,” Pete said. Words seemed to be stuck in his throat.

  Mexico lifted the bottle. “More?”

  Pete shook his head. “All our money is tied up in Tim’s claim.”

  “What?”

  Pete nodded.

  “Hell’s bells.” Mexico’s expression turned very sad. “You boys are the cheechakoest cheechakoes it’s ever been my distinct pleasure to meet.” He drank down the contents of his cup, then refilled it. “You may as well get back on your steamship and head home.”

  Pete flapped his hands. “We have no money for passage.”

  “Then the law will put you on one of the government revenue ships anyway. For vagrancy.” Mexico drank a deep slug. “Sam wouldn’t even need to make up a reason to hunt you out. He’d have the law on his side for sure if he had you arrested for being vagrants.” He sighed and frowned. “You can pan for gold on the beach. You can surely get enough for passage in two or three days.”

  Jean had listened all the while, but now spoke up. “I’m not going back without a stake.”

  Mexico gave him a hard look. “What?”

  “Digging out bits and pieces, getting together just enough for a ticket home – that’s not enough,” Jean said. The disturbing sense of floating untethered he’d felt since the encounter with Kearney had diminished. Replacing it was a new feeling of resolve, a firmness around his heart. “I need a stake. There’s nothing for me back home. Nothing. I’m not going back empty handed.”

  Mexico continued looking at Jean. He glanced at Pete, then returned his gaze to Jean. “Son, you seem to be a reasonable man. Now, I’m a gambler. I have to read men as well as I read cards. And I’ve learned all reasonable men have a weakness. They expect other men to be reasonable, too.”

  After a few moments he plugged the bottle and stood. “Let’s sleep on it. You boys need to figure something out. The last boat going outside before the big freeze leaves in four weeks. The ice won’t break up until May or June. If you decide to stay in Nome with no money through the winter, you’re gonna starve or freeze.”

  Mexico began to shed his clothes. He shooed Pete off his bed. Before he put out the flame of the oil lamp, he looked down at his two guests. “You boys better say your prayers.”

  Then it was dark.

  ROUND 8

  Mexico gave instructions before he left the room the next morning: “Stay in here. Fewer folks see you, the better. Let Sam simmer down. I’ll have food sent up.”

  After a while, Billy the desk man showed up. He appeared rather bleary. He kept his head angled forward just as he had last night, so Jean saw more of his nearly bald skull than he did Billy’s face. The man didn’t say a word, just left a clean chamber pot and took away the one from under the bed.

  Next, Mrs. Beecher arrived with a tray of food. She scowled into the room from the hallway.

  “I own this establishment,” she said from behind the tray. It was covered with a towel whose surface was made lumpy by whatever sat on the tray. The white towel made Jean think of the drifts of snow that would soon begin blowing over Nome. Mrs. Beecher continued, “Mr. Mullins told me about you. I wanted a look at you for myself, to see what trouble looks like in case Mr. Kearney learns of your whereabouts.” Her frown deepened. “He won’t be finding it out from me or anyone who works for me. Him and his has been bad for business.”

  Jean stepped back as Mrs. Beecher came into the room and set the tray atop the bowl on the wash stand. She was about fifty years old, Jean estimated. She was short and stout and wore her iron-gray hair pinned in a bun. A spotless white bibbed apron covered her yellow dress. She wore no rings or jewelry. “Billy works nights. You’ve met him. Morris works days. If you need something, see him. But Mr. Mullins said you’ll not be leaving the room, so Morris will bring up your meals.”

  She turned at the door before leaving. “Mr. Beecher has been gone ten years, but I know the ways of men. Did Mr. Mullins tell you the rules of the house?” Mexico hadn’t mentioned a word about rules, but Jean and Pete nodded dumbly.

  “Fine. Morris will come for the tray. Do you need anything?” She glanced around the room. “A cuspidor?”

  Both men shook their heads.

  “Fine.” She closed the door and they heard her descend the stairs.

  Removing the towel from the tray revealed biscuits, bacon, potatoes, gravy, sausages, and a pot of coffee. Jean realized they hadn’t eaten since stepping off the Excelsior. The two men didn’t leave a single crumb.

  Mexico had left a stack of newspapers and a couple of well-thumbed dime novels: Old and Young King Brady and the Opium Fiends and Franke Reade, Jr.’s Great Astronomical Trip With His Air-Ship “The Shooting Star.” Jean sat on the floor, wedged his back against a corner of the room, and worked his way through the newspapers. Pete sat on the bed and played solitaire with a deck he’d carried in his pocket. The two shared only half a dozen words.

  Morris came to their door bearing a loaded tray. Mrs. Beecher’s day man was nearly Billy’s twin, but he had a full head of black hair, a mustache, and he wore a blue vest. He didn’t say anything, just placed the dinner tray on the wash stand and took away the breakfast tray.

  Along with a hearty stew of beef and root vegetables was a loaf of bread, cheese, another pot of coffee and two bottles of beer.

  After the meal, Jean returned to his reading. Pete sat on the bed and pitched cards into his upended hat. As the afternoon wore on, Pete retrieved Mexico’s whiskey bottle from under the bed and started drinking while he pitched pasteboards at his dirty homburg. He didn’t offer the bottle to his co
mpanion.

  Jean’s gaze drifted up from the printed page to watch Pete. His pal looked old. The disruption of their plans had left Pete Lally – tough, boisterous, resilient Pete Lally – heart broken. Jean had never seen his friend like this, and he didn’t know if Pete would recover.

  The day wore on.

  Mexico Mullins appeared as dark was settling over Nome. He brought a tray laden with supper. “Eat up, gents.”

  While they ate, Mexico pulled out two more bottles of whiskey. He handed one to Pete, but kept hold of the other. “Sam Kearney has had a few boys making the rounds for you two. Lucky the only folks who got good looks at you were in The Northern when you had your little dance. George had the best look at you from the bar, but he’s Tex’s man and won’t be helpin’ to round you up.”

  “Who’s Tex?”

  “Tex Rickard. Owns The Northern. He has to deal with Judge Noyes and Kearney, but there’s no fond regard there.”

  Jean said, “Everyone seems to like this Kearney.”

  “Like I think I told you, he’s got most folks buffaloed. And he’s part of the judge’s crowd, so he’s tied in with the federal law. That trumps a lot.”

  While Mexico washed his face, he said, “You should stick around here in the mornin’ while I scout out if Sam is still on the warpath. If he’s cooled off, you won’t have to stay cooped up in here like chickens.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Made plans yet?”

  Jean looked at Pete, who was pouring a drink into a tin cup. “Not yet. Maybe if we can get on the street tomorrow we can figure that out.”

  Mexico raised an eyebrow, then nodded. “Okay. One of you gets to sleep in the bed tonight.”

  That caught Pete’s attention, but it was Jean who asked, “How so?”

  “Remember me tellin’ Billy last night I’d settle with Mrs. Beecher about you boys stayin’ here?”

  “Sure.”

  “Tonight I’m entertainin’ Mrs. Beecher.” Mexico raised the second whiskey bottle and touched it to the brim of his hat in a salute. “Say your prayers, boys.” And he left the room.

  ***

  Mexico had been gone two hours. Pete had abandoned all interest in his cards for the bottle of whiskey. Neither King Brady nor Frank Reade, Jr. could hold Jean’s attention, and the fighter had read through the newspapers twice.

  “I’m going out,” he said.

  Jean had expected his partner to repeat Mexico’s warning, but Pete just nodded and tipped his bottle. So Jean bundled up and pulled his hat low over his face and left.

  After a day confined to Mexico’s room, he finally felt he could breathe again. The ragged clouds of his breath reminded him of his money situation and the time limit for getting out of Nome, but the anxiety brought about by these thoughts was relieved by being able to stretch his legs.

  Front Street was alive with noise again. The loudest carousing rang out from the saloons and dance halls, but plenty of sounds – human and otherwise – emanated from a variety of businesses.

  Jean kept his face ducked in the shadow of his hat when he passed someone on the sidewalk or came within reach of light from a window. He had no desire to meet up with one of Sam Kearney’s men and be pulled into a confrontation. He simply wanted to walk and feel solid ground under his feet. He wanted to be left alone with his thoughts.

  Jean was passing the curtained front door of another business when he heard a scream from inside the building. Plenty of yells and shouts rattled through the night air, but Jean recognized this cry as a woman’s shriek of hysterical terror.

  He pushed open the doors. Once inside, the thick rugs, upholstered chairs, and ornate decorations told Jean he was in a bawdy house. Another scream rang down the staircase before him. He drummed up the stairs into a hallway rapidly crowding with women in varying stages of undress.

  “Where?” he rapped out.

  A young woman beside him pointed to the last door on the left just as a crash and another scream raised the hairs on Jean’s neck.

  He dashed to the door, rattled the knob, then raised his booted foot and kicked in the barrier.

  The door slammed open against the wall. Inside the room, a woman sat on a rumpled bed. She had pressed herself against the headboard, and blood ran down her face.

  A shattered crockery pitcher lay in the floor surrounded by a pool of water.

  At the foot of the bed stood a bare-chested man in trousers with suspenders. His face was red – not from blood, but from excitement or hysteria. He cut the air with a Bowie knife pointed toward the woman. He swore and showed his teeth when Jean came in.

  The man turned so he could threaten Jean. The latter moved slowly toward the foot of the bed. The man shouted abuse at Jean. The woman shrieked. Jean kept moving.

  The man darted at Jean and back, leading with the knife. Its point drew figure eights. Jean feinted. The man lunged, slashing. The blade sliced through Jean’s coat but didn’t touch flesh. The man made chopping motions, aiming for Jean’s arms.

  Jean snatched a robe from the bed, whipped it around his left forearm. The man darted in and back again. As his attacker stepped away, Jean kicked downward with the toe of his boot. A large chunk of the pitcher went skittering toward the man’s feet, and broken shards flew upward with a spray of water, arcing at the man’s legs and waist. In an instinctive protective move, the man stepped back, bent forward, and lowered his arms – including the arm with the knife. In that half second, Jean took a long stride forward and drove his fist down at the man’s head. He struck his jaw, and the man collapsed on the floor.

  Jean kicked away the knife. The fellow was unconscious, and Jean was pretty sure the man’s jaw was broken.

  He became aware the woman was releasing one short scream after another. A voice from the door said, “Somebody shut her up. Cathy, get in here.”

  Jean turned to see the speaker: A broad-shouldered woman of forty-five or fifty years. He could tell she was sturdily built even though she was clad in a black silk dress puffed with layers of petticoats. Her cheeks were striped red from hurrying up the stairs. A thick wave of dark hair rose from her forehead. Her arms rested akimbo and her feet were spread in a stance like a man’s.

  She was studying him while a woman went to the bed and started calming the screaming girl. Another older woman came in with a tray of rags and bottles for treating the girl’s wounded face.

  The woman in the dress at the door – clearly the madam of the establishment – looked from Jean to the man he’d knocked out. “Who let this son of a bitch in here? That’s Dawson Daniels. Everybody knows he goes crazy when he gets liquored up. Where’s Jimmy?”

  A redhead leaning nonchalantly against the frame, as if this sort of excitement was routine as steak and eggs at breakfast, spoke up, “Jimmy’s asleep.”

  The eyebrows of the woman in black went up. “Still? After all this?”

  The redhead nodded. “He’s been drinking. Again.”

  Light danced over the black silk as the woman stamped her foot. She looked up at Jean. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

  “New in town.”

  She stuck out a hand. “Margaret Burnet. Welcome to my home.”

  He extended his hand and they shook. She had a dry, firm grip. “Jean St. Vrain.”

  Madam Burnet made a show of looking him over, head to toe.

  “Buying a horse?” He smiled as he said it.

  “Maybe,” she answered. “Something better than the jackass I got. How’d you like a job?”

  “You hiring?”

  “I am.”

  “To do what?”

  The woman gestured at Daniels, still on the floor. “More of the same. Better still, to keep this sort of thing from happening. I don’t like my girls to get rough treatment.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Room and board.”

  “Wages?”

  The madam gave a start. “Being surrounded with the loveliest well-mannered
ladies north of the forty-ninth parallel isn’t payment enough?”

  Jean glanced at the redhead in the doorway. She wore a light blue chemise, and the pallor of her skin combined with the color of the chemise and that of her hair gave the woman a ghostly appearance. She narrowed her eyes at him. He watched her face as he answered Madam Burnet. “No.”

  One corner of the redhead’s mouth took a slightly downward turn.

  He returned his attention to the madam. Her face was turned down while she considered. Then she leaned her head back so her chin pointed up at him. “All right. Twenty-five dollars.”

  “A night?”

  “A week!”

  “One hundred dollars.” He smiled to keep negotiations friendly.

  Madam Burnet’s eyes were wide and the red stripes were back in her cheeks. “One hundred!”

  “A week.”

  She stamped her foot. “What do you think I’m running here?”

  “A very profitable business. I saw a lot of girls on my stroll up here. You wouldn’t have a lot of girls if you couldn’t keep ’em busy. And think of how much business this missy is going to miss while she heals up.” He poked his thumb in the direction of the bed. “If I keep that sort of thing from happening again, I’ve saved you from losing a lot more than a hundred bucks.”

  Madam Burnet gave him a glassy stare and a poker face. Jean didn’t let the friendly smile fade. Finally she sighed. “Start tonight?”

  “Right now.”

  She put out her hand. “Deal.”

  “Deal.” They shook on it.

  “First job,” Madam said, and she pointed at Daniels. “Toss him out the back door.”

  Jean bent and hefted Daniels over his shoulder. “Second job?” he asked.

  “You’ll do the same to Jimmy. You’re his replacement.”

  “Did he get wages?”

  The madam turned and headed out of the room. “The wages of sin.”

  The redhead still lounged in the door. She moved to let him through with his dead-weight burden. Jean smiled at her as he stepped through the door.

  She smiled back.